Collateral
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: Wash and Tucker test the waters before hunting down Control. Recovery's an ongoing process. Spoilers up through 12x18.


Tucker's body is curling in on itself before he's entirely sure what's happening. The pain in his gut is sharp, needling, and even in the haze of agony he paws frantically at his shirt to check his bandages, to make sure he hasn't torn something open. Again.

"You _fuck_," he gasps, letting his fingers splay out across his midriff, but the ache's going out of him with each breath. He's not mortally wounded. It just kinda feels like he is.

Wash hasn't moved from where he's standing a couple feet away, still crouched into a ready position, his fists raised. "You good?"

"What part of me looks good?" Tucker snarls, and even skips the requisite catchphrase, because _holy shit that hurt_. "I got stabbed a week ago, you jackass. Why would you punch me in the fucking stomach?"

Wash is still standing perfectly still, bouncing a little on his toes, like he's expecting Tucker to go from zero to fists-of-fury in one second flat. "We're sparring," he says. "Also, I was nearly beaten to death a week ago by a guy who talked like a Batman villain. You don't hear me complaining."

Tucker rolls onto his back with a groan, hands still clasped over his stomach. "That's because you get the shit kicked out of you once a week. You're used to it. This is still a novelty for me. Let me savor it."

"Hm," says Wash, and rolls his shoulders, falling into a looser stance that Tucker knows is a fucking trap. "You done savoring it yet?"

Tucker coughs, then groans, curling onto his side again. "You unbelievable piece of shit."

"You're malingering, _Captain_," Wash says, and then, a little more hesitantly, "I didn't mean to hit you that hard, you know. It's been a while since I sparred out of armor. Force balance is all wrong."

"Oh, sure, you meant to hurt me, but you didn't mean to hurt me this bad. Great. You're a real stand-up guy, Wash." Coughing again, Tucker uncurls enough to stare up at Wash, upside-down in his vision. There's still a greenish bruise along one cheekbone, and the workout shirt is loose enough that he can track an even nastier bruise running from his throat down to his left shoulder.

In response to this scrutiny, Wash raises one eyebrow in a particularly dickish expression that he probably practices in the mirror every morning. "We done here, or...?"

In response, Tucker uncoils, jackknifing to kick out at Wash's shins with both feet. He's a little surprised when he connects, even more surprised when Wash yelps and stumbles backwards, but he presses the attack, throwing himself bodily at Wash and dragging him to the ground in a clumsy tackle, flinging an arm across his throat to pin him down.

For a second, Wash thrashes underneath him, and Tucker jolts back, because holy shit, that's real panic in his eyes. A second later, Wash is wrenching away, driving his foot up and into Tucker's gut for leverage, and everything whites out, fading away to the sound of the ringing in his ears.

When Tucker comes back to himself, he's huddled on his knees, arms around his midsection, retching into the grass. Wash's hand is warm on his back, resting lightly between his shoulderblades. Tucker spits and says, "Well, shit. So this is a thing that's gonna happen."

"Me kicking your ass?" Wash says, mildly. "That's not exactly new."

Tucker scrubs at his mouth with the edge of his sleeve, shrugging away from Wash in the process. "I mean the thing where we keep fucking each other up without meaning to."

"Oh. That."

"Yeah. That."

Wash straightens with a groan, rolling out his shoulders again, then offers Tucker a hand. After a moment's hesitation, he takes it, hoists himself to his feet with a grunt. "So maybe we stop with the sparring," Wash says. "At least without armor. I... really don't want Dr. Grey to yell at me again. Her threats are disturbingly specific."

Tucker snorts. "You're just scared 'cause I was gonna kick your ass."

He can see Wash's mouth working to suppress a smile. "That's right, Captain. I was terrified you were gonna puke all over me."

Tucker doesn't bother concealing his own grin, purposely stumbling into Wash, knocking a shoulder against him. "Hey, fuck you."

"I'm glad you're okay too," Wash says, deadpan. "C'mon. I haven't seen Caboose in a few hours, which I'm sure means something's on fire."

"Oh shit," Tucker says, and breaks into an uneven jog, smirking when Wash speeds his own pace, always half a step ahead, pushing just that little bit harder.

Because, hell, everything's pretty fucked up and everything's probably gonna stay fucked up for a good long time, but some things? Some things never change.


End file.
